


Out of the Fire and Into the Plan

by wingsandhorseshoes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: graphic depictions of gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 08:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9064420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsandhorseshoes/pseuds/wingsandhorseshoes
Summary: Everyone knows that Castiel raised Dean from Hell (obviously, or else this is going to be VERY confusing). But what exactly happened while they were down there? How exactly did that rescue go? (Side note: please forgive the punny title. I'm bad at titles)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fan fiction is nonprofit and is simply just an idea I had in passing that wouldn't leave me be. It is solely written for the enjoyment of the fans. I do not own any of the characters in this story, as they belong to their creator, Eric Kripke. No copyright infringement is intended by the writing and creation of this story. I hope you enjoy it, and please feel free to leave any critiques or thoughts you might have, as I use it to help improve my writing. Without any further ado, to quote Joseph Fink:  
> Hey, thanks.

He was not particularly happy about the mission that he and his brothers and sisters were sent to carry out. This was a place of torture and horror beyond anyone's worst imaginings. Screams of unadulterated fear and pain permeated the air without cease. Chains that crisscrossed everywhere as far as the soul could see were saturated in blood and gore of various states of each victim glinted each time electricity and thunder coursed through the atmosphere, as if imitating nerve endings on edge. The fumes alone, the rotten onion-like stink of death and decay, would be enough to drive anyone insane. Rot and sewage of all kinds hung in the damp, humid air. The word horrible wouldn't even begin to describe this place. But as a soldier, he had no choice in the matter and the mission, as always, was everything. And so, Castiel's entire garrison were laying siege to Hell to rescue one man's soul.  
Horrible creatures of all sorts attacked from all sides. Hellhounds snarled and ripped at anything they could. Other distorted creatures, mangled and bleeding endlessly, tore out with claws and fangs. They were determined to drive the Angels out, though it would not work. Where demons were cruel and lashed out in anger, the Angels were relentless, cold, and unfeeling. The demons may get some of them, but try as they might, they were no match. The garrison struck hard and fiercely, and all of Hell shook at the uproar.  
Level by level, the garrison descended, and for years they fought endlessly, as time works differently there. Never once did Castiel's determination to complete the mission falter. His brothers and sisters fought valiantly, though many of them were consumed and killed. Whenever this occurred, Castiel would always spare a remorseful thought over the loss, but would quickly turn all thoughts back toward the mission. Nothing was more important, nothing was more just. They found their target staring off unblinking with glazed over eyes in a dazed trance-like state and strung up by shackles that were embedded underneath his "skin" at the wrists and ankles, no doubt keeping him in check until he would be needed to torture another soul. Where the white in his eyes should have been, there was black, and it had begun to take over the green that gallantly fought to stay visible. Missing were the hooks that had apparently had him wracked for his own torture, and in their place were festering and infected, gaping holes.  
Even after forty years in the Pit, Dean Winchester's soul was unmistakable. He looked like what Castiel assumed he did in life, but to his timeless eyes, the soul radiated a light that dazzled in refracted colors with each movement. It was like looking at those funny little stones that humans put such an emphasis on in symbolic jewelry, but this was human sized. In the center of his chest, written in gold Enochian script, was Dean's name. But alas, even for the Righteous Man, the years in Hell had not been kind. There were cracks all along his body as if it were broken porcelain, and through it Castiel could see black and red simmering like molten lava. His skin was riddled with bitter bruising everywhere that would not fade, as there was no healing in Hell unless willed by Demons of higher rank. Despite the effects Hell was beginning to have on Dean, Castiel still found him beautiful.

***

Though he was unconscious, there was still no escaping Hell. Images burned through every thought and memory and played out before him. His mother burning on the ceiling, except here, she talked to him, screaming in pain. She cursed him for doing nothing to help her; for running. She would sneer that he was a pathetic imitation of the son that she had wanted, and why hadn't it been Dean instead of her baby Sammy to be cursed. John spit on him and told him how he made such a poor Hunter, and berated him on throwing away what John had done to keep him alive. He was reminded how Sam was always the better son, smarter and more precious to John than Dean would ever be. These were things that Dean already knew, though that didn't lessen the truthful sting any. He even saw Jess, scorched from the fire. She scorned him for taking Sam away when she needed him. If he had of just stayed away, Sam could have protected her; they could have been happy. Every victim and friend Dean had ever failed to save haunted and taunted every corner of his mind.  
But none of these hurt as bad as when Sam would look down on him and tell him he was nothing. He had failed Sam in every way, and he deserved to be in Hell. He hadn't helped his mother, and so she was taken before he had even had a chance to form any actual memories of her. Dean was the reason John was dead. He was the reason Sam had left Stanford, and the reason why any chance of him settling down with an apple-pie life had been shattered. Everything Dean had ever done had ruined Sam's life in some way. No matter how many times Dean cried out for all of them stop, to forgive him, the noise never ceased.  
It was a blessed mercy when Dean was brought back to consciousness. The air was still filled with screams and horrid sounds, but at least they were from people he didn't know. He expected to see Alastair, or one of his lessers, in front of him as the one who woke him. Instead, he was met with something he never would have imagined.  
The creature before him was huge. It had long, lanky arms and legs, and its skin was a grayish-blue. It wore no clothes, but there was no need, because it had no junk, but in one hand it held a short silver sword. All across it's skin in intricate designs were stripes that pulsated with some form of power. It's legs were like that of a human being, except he stayed up like he was on tip-toes, and was perfectly comfortable to remain that way. On his chest was some sort of writing that glowed light blue. Dean's eyes traveled to the massive wings on the creature's back, which were black and glinted blue with each burst of lightning. And finally, sitting atop it's shoulders, were three heads; an ox head on the right, a zebra head on the left, and finally, in the middle a humanesque face that had no mouth or distinguishing features. The eyes of all three heads glowed that same very bright light blue as the writing on it's chest and the stripes, but the face in the middle, despite it's lack of features, was the most expressive.  
The head tilted to the side like a puppy, as if it were curiously studying him. As though HE were the odd one here. Dean was speechless, and no thoughts or words came to him. He had seen many strange and disturbing creatures during his time down here, but this one seemed different. The glow coming from it's eyes, chest, and stripes gave off a warmth that touched Dean to the very core. The creature did not move to attack him, merely observed. The "expression" the creature gave off was tense, ready for anything, but was also almost gentle.  
Dean's attention was drawn to his other surroundings when other similar looking creatures had gathered around, though at a distance, and were actually fighting off anything of malicious intent that tried to approach. His mind swirled with a dazed confusion. What could possibly be in store for him now?  
With it's center head still tilted, the mouths of the other two heads opened and actually spoke in unison. A voice, somehow simultaneously both masculine and feminine, rumbled from within the being.  
"Dean Winchester, fear not. No more harm shall come to you, and this shall be your deliverance from your untimely and injudicious fate." Dean heard the words, but his mind, as though saturated in molasses, was having trouble processing the words. Why is it that some people, or giant alien pigeons in this case, can't ever just say what they mean in plain English? Let's see, it said Deliverance, right? That was a movie, wasn't it? Had he seen that? It was the one about the backwoods... banjo...  
Dean's eyes drifted, unfocused as he began to return to the dazed trance that these strange creatures had awoken him from.

***

Watching Dean's head loll off to the side once more with glazed over eyes, Castiel moved forward and hacked through the chains restraining Dean about a foot from both wrists and both ankles. He caught Dean in one of his bony hands. He was limp in the Angel's grasp, who held him firmly around his middle. It wouldn't be long before he woke again, and it was time they began to make their way back. The mission was almost complete. Castiel turned back to his garrison.  
"The soul has been obtained. Fall back and stay alert. They're going to double their efforts now; failure is unacceptable," he commanded. He held his blade at the ready as they all began their ascension.  
They made good time, seeming to take less time, as most return trips do. They held the Hell-spawn off easily enough, and casualties were next to nothing at all. It was almost too easy, which only inspired Castiel to be more vigilant. An ominous battle silence fell upon the garrison, though the cacophonous and horror inducing symphony echoing throughout Hell remained. Of course, just like how things always seem to get better before they fall apart worse than before, it was merely the calm before the storm.  
Any and every demon, hellhound, and nightmarish monstrosity assaulted the garrison with everything they had. The garrison fought back, trying to maintain their ground. A particularly gruesome looking demon with white eyes took it upon himself to attack Castiel personally, with two hellhounds snarling and biting at Castiel's ankles and forcing him to keep moving. The demon in question chuckled as the angel lashed at them with his angel blade, catching one in the neck.  
"Didn't your Daddy ever teach you Celestials that it was a sin to take something that didn't belong to you?" The demon sneered. Castiel swung his blade again as the second Hellhound lunged, and the blade cut both of it's front legs off with a clean swipe. He adjusted his stance, preparing for the demon to attack and ignoring the obvious taunt.  
"Not very chatty, are we? Oh well, can't fault a demon for trying. How about we liven things up a bit more instead then? Wakey, wakey Dean-o! Time to play!" It called out as it lunged at him with a blade of it's own. The blade, dripping with the same sort of lava-like gore that could be seen coursing beneath the cracks in Dean's skin, tore across Dean's face, leaving behind a large gash that festered immediately. Dean cried out in pain, and was instantly awake.  
It was like Dean was transformed into a rabid animal, striking in blind attacks with a knife that had been hidden at his hip in the tattered clothes he wore. This was a conditioned attack; no doubt instilled into Dean's core by Alastair himself, like a dog trained to assail anything and anyone under the command. The knife Dean held, which also oozed gore, was jabbed into Castiel's hand, which caused him to loosen his grip in pain. Dean climbed out of the grasp and hacked wherever he could land a strike. Cringing, Castiel switched the angel blade to his other hand and grasped Dean tightly, holding both arms to his sides. The angel turned his attention back to the demon, who was laughing with a deep distorted chortle.  
"Those little pokes our pet just gave you are going to take a good bit of concentration to heal if you want to make it out of here. And the more you fight, the faster that disease is going to spread. It's a very potent little concoction, one of my own creation. It'll eat away at you until you're just as corrupt as we are." The demon was all smiles at this new development. Castiel silently cursed himself for not being more aware of the possibility that they would use Dean himself against them, but kept his outward appearance stoic and poised at the ready.  
"Disband tactic, regroup topside!" He ordered, and immediately the entire garrison split up. For one split second, the demon's attention was on the other angels as they flew off in all directions, and Castiel took advantage of it. He lashed out at the demon, who yowled in pain as it left a deep gash all across it's body, and then took off as fast as his wings could carry him. Demons and a handful of hellhounds tore off after him, but he had gained just enough ground on them that they couldn't catch up with him.  
Still clutching both the soul and his angel blade, Castiel found an area that was unoccupied by anything malefic that he could pause a moment to focus on purging himself of the toxin from the demon's blade. Dean had long since gone quiet again, sunk back into his dazed state, and so Castiel loosened his grip. He held him gently in his lap as he sat cross-legged and closed all of his eyes except for those of the zebra, which stayed open to keep look-out. He breathed deep and concentrated as he pushed the toxin out of himself.  
Castiel wasn't really sure how much time had actually passed, but it brought Castiel's attention back to the present when Dean started to stir. At first, it was just miniscule movements, with an occasional mumbled word. But it was mere seconds before he was thrashing out weakly at random and his mumbles changed to halfhearted pleas.  
"That woman- we have to help- can't just leave her here..." Dean said, tossing his head side to side, like he was trying to clear it, his eyes glazed over. That's when Castiel actually heard the woman they were near-by, who had seen them. She was chained as well, and she was in bad shape. Her wounds were raw and festering, green and black running up her arms and legs. Curdled blood oozed from her mouth, adding to the general gore of the area. In patches, her skin was blistering, crisping, and popping as eternal flames danced. Her bloodshot eyes were watching them and she sucked in rasping breaths, trying to draw in enough air to get her desperate whimpers for help out.  
Dean was looking at her now, though he was obviously having a hard time concentrating. He feebly tried to get himself up, but he could hardly hold himself up, let alone get over to the woman and help her. But Castiel watched, impressed at the soul in his lap.  
He had always been fascinated by his Father's creations. They were flawed and fragile little things, but so beautiful in their complexity and funny little ways. It was so peculiar how they had their rituals for even the simplest of tasks that weren't even essential for their survival, or how they could create things like poetry and art that brought attention to even the most mundane of things. How amazing that these creatures, so simple in theory, could not only endure survival, but also thrive and quite literally and figuratively reach for the stars. And the soul of Dean Winchester was a prime example.  
Castiel knew a little bit about the Winchesters. He knew Dean had been through a lot in his life. But he was still impressed at just how resilient and persistent Dean was. This soul had been tortured in Hell, was in the process of actually becoming a demon, yet he was doing his damnedest to force himself to focus and help another soul out of such an awful fate. Dean had never met this woman, didn't know what she had done to end up here or in such a horrific state, whether she was innocent or guilty, yet didn't think twice to try and help her. He could see why this was the Righteous Man.  
Bringing his thoughts back to the task at hand, Castiel reached down and prevented Dean from getting up. Dean tried to shove Castiel's hand, despite it being bigger than he is.  
"Get offa me, you... giant feather-brained... E.T. ... thing," he said weakly, slurring his words dazedly. He was trying and failing to shove away Castiel's hand still. Castiel was gently but firmly holding Dean back. He tried to explain that it was impossible for them to do anything for the woman. It wasn't part of the mission, and any deviation was not an option. No matter how much Castiel secretly wished he could. Castiel was under strict orders that Dean was the only soul to be saved, and he knew disobedience would not be tolerated.  
Dean wasn't understanding Castiel, whether it was because he was still dazed or for some other reason; Dean continued to fight him, and the woman continued to plead. If Castiel was being honest with himself, he hurt to see such pain and sorrow in these creatures. But there was nothing he could do.  
The rest of this mission would go so much smoother if only he could get through to Dean in some way that he wished he could. To not fight him, because he understood. In an off-handed attempt, Castiel lifted Dean up so that he was level with his middle head. He said nothing, knowing that Dean would not understand it anyway, but merely looked at him, trying to communicate with his eyes. Trust me.

***

Dean lifted his head a little from how it had lolled to the side, but still kept trying to escape the iron grip. This creature was obviously trying to communicate something to him, now if only he could get the lead out of his pants, so to speak, and put two and two together. If the Hardy Boys, the Scooby-Doo gang, or that chick detective, all of them a bunch of kids (except, you know, the dog) could solve big time mysteries, surely he could figure this out, right? ... Maybe...  
The middle head was slightly bent downward, and those big eyes were looking at him. It was a bit awkward, but Dean saw this for what it was. It was an action of equality. This alien thing had lifted him to be eye to eye with it, and then also went so far as to bend its head a little. It wasn't submission, exactly, but it was a show of trust. And that's when it hit him.  
Dean drew in a breath, then nodded tiredly and immediately stopped struggling against the massive hand wrapped around him. Out of exhaustion and surrender, he let himself go flaccid in the grip. In the back of his mind, he noted that there was probably some sort of dirty joke that could be made about that, but he simply couldn't focus enough to care.  
Dean Winchester was not in the habit of just letting others take control over what happened to him, especially not a supernatural being that he knew nothing about. But it had done nothing to hurt him. In fact, this being had done nothing but help him since they had first seen each other. He was already dead, and had been tortured and taught by the best in Hell, so he was sure that his situation was one he could handle. He didn't know why they couldn't help the woman, and he was not happy about that. But he did know that this creature handling him would only keep him from helping, and Dean barely had enough energy to stay awake at this point. This was just another victim to add to his ever growing and extensive list.

***

When Dean nodded and quit struggling, Castiel was all relief. This would go much smoother now, and they were so close to achieving the mission. Dean remained limp and a little out of it, but was awake and watching Castiel as he moved to stand up. He adjusted Dean so his head was laying on the heel of his hand where it would be slightly more cushioned, and he was laying stretched out across his hand with his feet resting towards the tips of his fingers.  
When Castiel was satisfied that Dean was more comfortable, he held his blade at the ready and spread his massive wings, preparing to take flight again. The toxin was mostly out of his system, at least enough to not worry about until after the mission. However, the blue shine of his wings was mostly gone and they were dulled as a result, most likely a permanent one. He was also missing a few feathers. That was unfortunate. However, he shook it off; there were more important tasks at hand than his own vanity.  
He looked around, making sure there was nothing malign in the immediate area, before he took off at his topmost speed. Each of Castiel's movements were done with precision and care as they continued on. Dean remained awake, which at times was helpful, as he would occasionally use his own blade to hack at anything that got too close. Castiel was grateful for Dean's effort, and a very hushed part of him was touched at the helpful gesture.  
It wouldn't be long now. They were almost out of Hell, and then would be the next step of healing Dean's soul and rebuilding his physical body. All to come, in due time. For now, they were nearing the exit. From this point on, the experience of being risen from not only death, but Hell as well, would be particularly unpleasant for Dean. It wasn't exactly normal for a soul to rapid-heal from extreme torture and partial demonic transformation, and then on top of that have their organic matter stitched back together atom by atom after such a traumatic end. Castiel decided to spare Dean that experience.  
Right before Castiel got to the exit, he raised Dean up so they were eye level again. He looked at Dean meaningfully, but it only seemed to confuse him. No matter. It wouldn't make much difference anyway. He raised his other hand and gently touched one of his bony fingers to Dean's head, his hair soft under his finger. Immediately, Dean went limp into a deep slumber.

***

Dean wasn't sure exactly why his rescuer had stopped, or why it had lifted him up again and was giving him a look that was obviously supposed to mean something that Dean was obviously too dense to get, especially right now. What the hell was the point of all this? Was this all just a very big, very weird wild goose chase, emphasis on the big weird goose?  
When the creature touched Dean's head, everything ceased. Dean was suddenly in what felt oddly like a dream. He was in a hammock in the shade of a tree, one foot hanging off on one side that he was using to make it rock. In place of the screams and other horrifying sounds were a quiet chorus of birds in the distance and a general silence. All around him was a field littered with an assortment of wildflowers that danced slightly in the warm breeze. The setting sun illuminated everything, amplifying the assortment of colors around him, and the sweet aroma of freshly cut grass and fresh linen wafted on the breeze.  
There were no bad sounds, there were no putrid smells, there were no gaping wounds that stung with terrible pain, and best of all there were no people he knew or couldn't save there to haunt him. There was only peace and calm. Dean knew that he should probably be freaking out, that there was no possible way that this could be true. But despite himself, he found himself basking in the overwhelming quiet and calm. He took a deep breath, and for the first time in half a lifetime, he was at peace.

***

With that done, Castiel passed through the exit from Hell and into the humans' reality, both appearing as ribbons of bright light. But they were not stopping there. They continued upward, until they were up in the cosmos, in a little pocket just before the entrance to Heaven and in between the two realities.  
"Dean Winchester is saved!" Castiel shouted with all the power within himself, announcing to all of the Heavenly Host, no matter where they were in the cosmos, that the mission had succeeded.  
Dean was still unconscious as Castiel suspended him in the air. He then morphed himself down until he was roughly the same size as Dean. This would allow him to pay attention to the details of putting Dean's soul back together completely before he returned him to his body.  
Castiel took in a deep breath as he concentrated, bringing his raw grace to the tips of his fingers, which he touched to Dean's forehead. Slowly the cuts and gashes began to heal; the molten lava-like substance hissed as it cooled over. Those would be the scars in his mind that comes with an experience such as this, and though Castiel could easily erase those memories, they were needed for what was planned for the Winchester. However, due to how bad the state he was in when he was rescued, and due to the fact that outside of death the human soul can not look at an angel's true form, Dean would not have any memories of being rescued. The bruises that littered his skin receded, and the whites returned to his eyes. Finally, after some time, the final thing he took care of was destroying the chains that had remained around Dean's wrists and ankles, then healing the remaining wounds from them. Finally, Castiel was satisfied with his work. Now it was time for the final part of the mission.  
With a flap of his wings, Castiel rounded Dean until he was behind him and placed his right arm under Dean's right arm, and over his left shoulder, holding Dean to his chest. When he was secure, Castiel began his decent, right towards Pontiac, Illinois where Dean's body was buried. Each brushstroke of his wings pushed him faster and faster towards Earth. He pulsed all of his power in front of him, until they were both glowing. It was only moments before they came crashing into the ground at the grave site with an impact that leveled the trees in the immediate area with cosmic effects.  
Dean's soul was thrust back into his body. The force of the power Castiel had built up on the decent pulled the necessary atoms to Dean's body with a loud snap. Castiel's power pulsed a final time, and with a loud crack like thunder, the atoms were cauterized into place, leaving only a hand print where Castiel's grave had seared the final wound shut. That hand print would serve as a claim, marking Dean as Castiel's charge, and in turn, Castiel as Dean's guardian angel. The body was now complete, and Castiel stood back to observe his handiwork.  
After a few moments, Dean gained consciousness and clawed his way to the surface. He was covered in dirt and dehydrated, but otherwise he looked good as new. Dean eventually made his way to a little gas station, breaking in and getting water and a few other items that served no other purpose than those of indulgence. Castiel was made aware by the angel communication in his mind that his new orders were to make contact with Dean and debrief and prepare him to do Heaven's work when called. He supposed this was as good a moment to do so as any.  
"Dean Winchester, fear not. My name is Castiel, and I come to you now with a mission which God has bestowed on you in favor..." Castiel began, but cut himself off when it became apparent that Dean was not reacting in the way that he had hoped.  
Could it be that Dean was not one of the special few who could understand Castiel's true form? Or perhaps it was too soon after his resurrection for Dean to understand him and needed some time to adjust before Castiel made contact with him. That was fine. Castiel was patient, and could wait a little before reaching out to Dean again. With that in mind, he spread his wings and flew off to watch his Father's creations to bide his time while Dean made contact with his friends and family again.  
Some time later, after what Castiel felt was an appropriate amount of time for Dean to adjust, Castiel found Dean in a little motel. The timing was good, since both his brother and fatherly figure were both out. Castiel tried again, and the result was still the same as before. Out of frustration, he stared off into the distance at nothing in particular and sighed. This meant that he was going to have to find a vessel. Hopefully that wouldn't take long. 

***

Finally, Castiel had a vessel. Which was a good thing, since he had been summoned by Dean and the one called Bobby some time ago. They would just have to forgive his tardiness. Finding a vessel isn't exactly the easiest job in the world, and it was impressive that he had found one in the time frame that he did.  
It was only a moment later when Castiel descended upon the abandoned barn that they had chosen to confront him in. But of course, flying in a vessel is slightly more awkward than he had anticipated at first. His essence was thrown off slightly with his undulating power flow, which manipulated his surroundings, imitating the onset of a storm, causing any lights in the barn to burst and sparks to fly. Perhaps he could learn to control that with time. He opened the door using his grace and stalked in, his face blank and indifferent.  
He knew that Dean would be abrasive, and that he might not take this well. He knew what was coming could mean life or death to so many of his Father's creations. He knew that Dean would face many trials ahead, some of which would put great strain on him. But that was just a side effect of what was to come, and Dean was no exception to such happenings. His mission was almost complete and that was all that mattered, as always. Or so he kept repeating to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> *Ok, so there was originally a slightly different ending to this with an attempt at a little bit of humor, but it just kept nagging at me that it didn't really fit the tone of this little story, so I went ahead and changed it. Hopefully this one fits a little better now. Comments are, of course, always welcome since I'm still pretty new to writing fanfiction. Let me know what you all think :) *  
> Thank you SOOOO much for taking the time to read this fan fiction. I love writing out these things, and hope that it brings at least a little enjoyment to your day. Keep on Carrying On fandom! :)


End file.
